The Great Smog
by Thefreakoutsideyourwindow
Summary: It's 1952, and a rather cold winter for England, but what happens when people burn too many coal fires and leaves the poor Brit in a rather disastrous state?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.

* * *

A somewhat short man decked in a heavy trench coat and tan scarf briskly walked through the streets of London. The morning itself was cool and crisp, no nippy winds to bite at you, or falling snow to chill you to the bone, yet the man still walked quickly.

"Freezing my bloody arse off here..." He muttered to himself.

This winter had been unusually cold for England, and he had received heavy snowfall throughout the course of November, of which it seemed had no intention of relenting for this December either. Walking as quickly as humanly possibly, without tripping up on snow or slipping on black ice, he made his way into a small, yet cosy tea house on the side of the cobblestone market road.

Upon entering, his senses were enlightened with the pleasant smell; of tea, scones and Christmas wonders, all of which was followed by a very welcome warmth.

Taking a seat, he pulled off his leather gloves and looked around the said tea house with a nonchalant look on his face. Couples in red leather booths huddles together for warmth, a middle aged man with grey hair and spectacles was reading the paper, groups of girls chatted ecstatically about the latest events and a fireplace crackled merrily in the far back.

It seemed many people were burning wood or coal in them as of late, no thanks to Jack frost...

Before his thoughts could continue any longer, a young woman with a kind face and brown hair tied neatly back appeared.

"May I take your order sir?"

Snapping his head round so to face her, the Englishman's expression went from blank to pleased, and he replied in a velvet voice,

"Ah yes, I'll have a pot of earl grey tea and several cheese scones please."

The waitress smiled, noting down the order and soon scurried off to fetch the requested items. Returning to his thoughts, he wondered if this was how cold America and Canada always were at this time of year. Mind you though, they were probably used to harsh climates and so showed no sign of discomfort at the world conference this Monday. Speaking of which, this January it would have been running for a decade now. It certainly does help to know what fellow nations are thinking about, not constantly worrying about being stabbed in the back or betrayed or even-

His thoughts were cut short yet again as the waitress appeared with the teapot, saucer, teacup, scones and plate in hand. If he wasn't so intent on getting the warmth of the tea within himself, England may have been impressed as to how she could carry that of all without a tray or dropping anything.

Replying with a curt 'Thank you', he took the tea and scones, and upon placing it on the table, he decided to buy a newspaper as well.

* * *

Time within the tea house seemed non-existent and England paid it no heed, as he would much rather pay attention to his tea and scones. Nothing huge was reported in the newspaper, just recent local events and how everybody was getting together again for Christmas, and how there would be more snow...more of the bloody stuff?!

Upon the realisation that there would be more England almost choked on the remainders of his tea, but after a few rough coughs managed to get it under control. Looking outside the window, he noted that it was around 11am now and that he should probably get moving, he had spent enough time in the tea house.

Getting up from his comfy spot and reluctantly away from the warmth of the fireplace, England paid a short visit to the counter, paying for his tea and then made his way to the door.

Stepping out into the cobblestone street again, he swiftly lit a cigarette and brought it to his mouth. He didn't really give a damn if the doctors called it healthy, that was only a small benefit to his crave of nicotine and tobacco. After taking a long puff and released it though his nostrils he repressed a cough rising in his throat and threatening to rack his lungs. Maybe he had caught a cold? Brushing the idea off, he threw it on the ground and stepped on it, putting it out, and made his way to the Victorian fair to go shopping for bargains on Christmas presents before the 'mad dash' begun. Besides, the American idiot would whine if he didn't get him something, and he made a very high priority mental note to not forget Canada's present this year, as that has been a very difficult situation to weasel out from.

Brushing his way past people, he visited multiple stalls, all of which held exotically coloured and patterned items, but nothing that was of real significance caught his eye. After about half an hour of browsing, he came across a native American themed stall. Smiling inwardly to himself, he made his way to easy presents.

The man at the stall looked surprisingly genuine, not the sneaky and suspicious kind of person you may expect, trying to get as much money as possibly by selling fake antiques and pieces, but instead looked like a true native American. He had long black hair, the front two pieces braided and effortlessly rested atop his chest, his eyes deep and weary, but sparkling with wisdom and a tanned face to prove his heritage. Although he wasn't wearing 'native clothing' and instead a thick fur and skin coat, he still looked realistic enough.

Approaching the said native American, England cleared his throat. After getting no response and physically trying not to let his eyebrow tick get to him, he took in a deep breath and was about to clear his throat again, but his lungs were racked with coughs.

Unable to stop himself, his body bent slightly forward as he held up an arm to cover his coughs, his body shaking with every one. Hearing this, the man slowly exhaled from his old pipe and looked up to him, waiting for him to finish coughing.

After a minute of coughing and harsh mental berating, England stood back up again, shoulders back as to prove it had not affected him, yet he was tearing at the corners of his eyes.

"Do you-" He was cut short and his voice was raspy. After successfully clearing his throat and swallowing, he tried again, "Do you have any good suggestions for gifts?"

If one was bad at reading human emotions, they would have thought that the man wasn't phased. England however, noticed the smile in his eyes as he turned, picking up two objects and then placing them down in front of him.

England's eyes widened in slight surprise when he saw what they were. Before him were two beautifully made wood carvings, one of a polar bear and one of a bald eagle in the finest of ebony, polished to perfection.

"How much?" He asked quickly, not daring to take his eyes off of them for a single second, and so missed the man's smirk.

"Nothing." He replied in a deep voice.

"Pardon?" England questioned again, his eyebrow piquing in curiosity as if he spoke in another language.

"They are free." The man responded with a chuckle.

"But why?" England asked. Now he was truly confused. "These can be worth a fortune!"

The native American simply looked at him, a wise smile gracing his eyes and face, and replied,

"I could tell the moment I saw you that these gifts were meant for you."

England simply looked at him, astounded that he was saying such a thing. Meant for him? What on earth was he talking about? Maybe this was a practical joke, to send him off kilter, but who would-

Without even realising it, a paper bag containing the two said items was swiftly placed in his outstretched hand, the native American brushing past him, and whispering his ear as he did so,

"I just know Canada and America will love them."

He whirred around, eyes wide in shock as he heard that, questions buzzing through his mind at the speed of light. How did he know them? Was he in on the secret of nations? Maybe he was a nation himself. If so, why would he care about them?

But when he turned to ask him, there was no-one there.

* * *

Light dimly entered through the windows, yet with little enthusiasm as it did so. Off yellow floral curtains hung lamely by their side, collecting dust. Furniture sat still in suspension, tensely awaiting for something to strike at any possible moment while silence deafened and dominated the house.

All of this was quickly disrupted as a Brit loudly entered the house, forcing the heavy doors open and then closing them in the same lightening speed, giving out a loud BANG. England sighed, leaning against the door for support. He had almost been run over by a double decker. A bleeding DOUBLE DECKER for Christ's sake! How could they not see him?!

Looking out the window, he noticed that a dense fog was quickly collecting outside and repressed a cough, realising this was no time to be wandering the streets. He turned to the old grandfather clock. 12 precisely. England nodded to himself, placing down the bag containing the presents in the broom cupboard and hung his coat up, deciding to make himself some lunch and tea.

But before he could get any further, he was stopped again by that damned cough. Unable to even curse his luck about picking up such a wretched cold or something along those lines, he found that he couldn't stop, and his hand was doing him little favours by covering his mouth. Continuing to cough, he gasped for breaths between them, yet that did little more but give him a greater reason to cough. Eyes already tearing, he fell to his knees, body quaking as he tried to stop it, as he was becoming light-headed.

In an instant, the coughing ceased, and he let his shoulders slump in relief leaning slightly back. Pulling his hand away from his mouth, something on it immediately caught his attention, emerald eyes aflame with anxiety.

His hand was completely covered in something black.

Running his fingers through it, he realised that it was in fact ash, letting it slide through his fingers and fall to the floor, not caring about his rug. Before he could even gasp, he felt the all too familiar feel of restraint around his lungs, trying and failing desperately to get any air in as panic grew in his stomach.

England felt his head grow lighter, sounds fading and colours blurred, unable to suck in any air, mouth gaping, trying again and again. He half felt the feeling of falling backwards, but was given no chance to realise it as he was swept over by a wave of black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: Thank you to silverheartlugia2000 and sabilandako you say for reviewing. Critiques and reviews are greatly** **appreciated.**

* * *

It was black, everything was black. If there was an escape, England couldn't think of any. His head reeled and it hurt to breathe. His eyes felt watery, even though he was sure they were closed. It felt as if his skin was on fire.

Sounds came to him first. Patchy, but audible.

"Until this lifts, there's nothing we can really do." A firm voice echoed, but was devoid of reassurance.

"But we cannot just leave 'im like zhis!" The first voice was accompanied by a heavily accented one, drenched in worry. It almost sounded like...

"Frog...?" England croaked, without realising he had said it aloud. This was quickly followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and of wood being pushed against the floor, probably a chair being pushed back.

"Angleterre? Can you 'ear me?" France asked worriedly.

As if in response, England opened his eyes. After the brief pain of opening them to light, and being so tempted to close them again, he noticed he was in his bedroom, with a worried France and a man he didn't recognise, peering over him.

Light no longer spilled through the windows, as it was firmly blocked not only by curtains, but the oblivion of night. The lampshade at his night stand was on along with the main room light, illuminating the ancient patterned wallpaper that hung to the wall for dear life. Two chairs were parallel to his beside, for the two inhabitants.

"What-" He coughed before he could continue any farther. France, obviously away of the situation, quickly dashed off, but returned none the less with a glass of water in his hand. After France helped him up, England took the glass off of him, nodding curtly and gratefully swallowing the water which grated against his throat with every gulp.

After finishing off the water, he set it on the night-stand as the stranger continued to evaluate him with his penetrating gaze, poking and prodding him as he checked his condition, and France only looked worried. Taking a breath which thankfully didn't catch, he asked,

"What happened?"

France threw his arms up elaborately, and before he could have a speech on how terrible something was, the man interrupted,

"You fainted due to lack of oxygen getting to your lungs. This was caused by the smog that has recently settled on London."

"Smog?" England asked, befuddled. Sure, there was a bit of fog by lunch, but there was no smog, surely.

This time, France managed to interject before the other being could.

"Oui Angleterre!" He exclaimed. "There 'as been so much pollution created by your factories an' cars, it finally condensed an' put you in zhis state!"

England continued to stare blankly, his gaze flickering from France to the man in his room, still confused. Wait...why was there a man in his room?

Turning to the said person in question, he asked,

"Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"

The man seemed to glare for a moment, accentuating his features, and reluctantly drew back, halting his examination. He was a middle aged man, with slightly curled black hair, a wide jaw and heavy rimmed glasses, none of which helped with the 'friendly' demeanour. A hefty black leather bag lay atop the chair next to him, and Arthur could guess where this was going.

The said person in question answered,

"I'm doctor Frederick. I was called here by Francis after he found you in your house collapsed."

Arthur merely nodded and then turned his attention to France, asking,

"What were you doing in my house then?"

Francis, at the mention of the question went from concerned to near-embarrassed, and stuttered before replying sheepishly,

"Spreading ze Christmas cheer?"

England merely looked at him in disbelief, and before he could retort about how he was probably out to grope something and 'accidentally' ended up at his house, a coughing fit overcame him. He was getting _really_ tired of this bloody cough.

Francis was with him in an instant, rubbing his back in circles comfortingly and murmuring words of support whilst the doctor observed Arthur with a passive gaze, quickly going to jot something down on a notepad on the night stand. Once the coughing fit had subsided, England thankfully finished off the remaining water, and Dr. Frederick stated,

"He'll need plenty of bed-rest. As long as the people suffer, he will too, so there's no need to waste medical supplies."

France's face morphed into anger and was about to argue when he was interrupted yet again.

"You can stay with him if you like. My office number is on the paper. Call me if his condition worsens."

And with that, the doctor stood up, grabbing his bag in the process, bidding them farewell and exited the house.

Standing from his kneeling position after tending to England,ignoring how his joints clicked, France exclaimed,

"I 'ave _never, never_ seen somebody so...so..._insolent!_" If Arthur wasn't in such a bad state, he was sure that Francis may have gone to strangle the man himself.

Grabbing his arm gently, but firmly, Arthur stated,

"Francis, it's okay. He was only explaining the conditions."

"But still!" Francis insisted, but stopped after looking at Arthur and the expression he was wearing. It was slightly pained but understanding. _Mon Dieu_ he thought _If old eyebrows isn't complaining, 'e must be ill!_

"Let us get your temperature taken, non?" He announced brisking past England, making his way to the bathroom when he heard a weak but still irritated voice saying,

"I can take care of myself frog."

He smirked, tension taken off his shoulders as he collected the required items. _At least 'e is well enough to insult me_ he thought relieved as he gracefully made his way back to the sick nation.

* * *

The hours passed in relative peace. France tended to England, who-despite being ill- managed to spew out insults faster than a sailor. All was going well. That was until lunch, or more specifically breakfast.

_Arthur had woken at around 3am when the doctor was checking up on him, _France reasoned. _Plus he said he was going to make himself lunch before he passed out, so why is he making such a fuss?_

"I'm sorry Francis but I really don't feel like eating this." England stated, pushing the food on the tray farther away from him, as if it made him safer.

"Why not mon chère? Do you feel nauseous?" He asked concerned. So far England had managed to keep everything down-tea, water and cough syrup- but he didn't want to change that.

"No, I just don't want to eat." England tried to reason with a huff, unconsciously crossing him arms over his chest.

"_Please_ Angleterre, you 'ave not eaten since yesterday! We do not want you getting malnourished now, oui?" Francis responded with genuine concern etching his face.

This caught the Brit by surprise. He didn't want Francis to think he was being stubborn, but he didn't want him to worry over him either. God knows just how flamboyant and dramatic the French can be.

Sighing, he sat up and faced the Frenchman stating,

"Only if you let me eat it by myself."

"Of course, mon ami." France replied with a smile. It was only French toast after all.

Picking up a slice of it, England quietly nibbled at the toast, forcing it down his throat despite the scratching agony it caused him. The food itself didn't taste horrible, it actually tasted quite good, but the reason he didn't want to eat it was because his throat hurt enough merely swallowing tea- and some with honey to soothe his throat at that. Hell, breathing even hurt. It sent needles dancing across his lungs and fire down his throat, even though they were inside away from the pollution.

Francis, noticing England's brow furrowing worriedly asked,

"Is everything alright Angleterre? Do you feel ill?"

"No, I-" Arthur hurriedly placed down the remaining toast and covered his mouth, preventing half chewed pieces of toast from flying out of his mouth as he coughed. Stopping himself from choking, Arthur quickly swallowed the toast, but soon after realised contents of his lungs had gone down with it as well.

It was not settling well with his stomach.

Francis stopped rubbing Arthur's back after noticing the silence was not accompanied by a sigh of relief or any relaxation of muscles and quickly realised why after looking at his face. Arthur had gone deathly pale and was starting to hunch over.

"Mon chère, do you think you are going to be sick?" He asked, voice pinched in worry.

Arthur simply nodded, hunching over farther and not caring when France picked him bridal style and rushed him to the bathroom. The moment he was placed down on the cold marble floor, Arthur placed his hands on the toilet seat and was violently sick, ash and the consumed items from before coming up as he did so. Francis would occasionally brush the bangs out of his face as his stomach rejected its contents and would rub his back murmuring supportive words the other times. Despite this, France felt pretty useless.

He had never really seen Arthur in such a weak state since WW2, and in nation terms it wasn't that long ago. But if a little air pollution brought him down to _that_ level, was it really just a little?

Realising England has thrown up all he could and was now dry heaving, France helped him back into a sitting position and gave him a damp wash cloth to clean himself up with. England nodded weakly, and proceeded with getting himself to a decent state whilst France flushed the toilet and cleaned up any other possible remnants of this event.

Once all of that was sorted, Francis made his way back to Arthur, putting the wash cloth on the edge of the sink to be cleaned later and asked softly,

"'ow are you feeling mon ami?"

"Like shit." England replied bluntly, rubbing his face with his hands in fatigue and slight embarrassment. It was bad enough throwing up, but in front of the frog? It was almost too much.

France seemed to wince slightly at the swear, but then changed his face back to the normal 'pervy smile' as he helped England brush his teeth and then left him to get changed into a pair of his pyjamas.

After a little while Francis looked at an old grandfather clock he had in the corridor, reading the hands. _'e 'as been in there for five minutes...surely it doesn't take that long to put pyjamas on?_

Slightly worried, France got up from leaning against the wall and rapped at the bathroom door.

"Angleterre? Is everthing alright?"

No answer.

Becoming anxious, France knocked on the door again and stated,

"I am coming in now, if you are not covered up, it will not be my fault if I see!" He added his typical 'Ohn ohn ohn', hoping to get an insult as a reply from Arthur, or hear a scurrying as he speeded up getting dressed, but was met with silence again.

"Angleterre?" He asked nervously, not trying to hide that he was feeling as such as he opened the door.

"Mon Dieu!" Francis exclaimed, rushing in and falling to his knees as he discovered Arthur on the bathroom floor, his trousers on and shirt half buttoned, panting heavily, flesh slick with sweat and face pinched in pain.

"Angleterre, can you 'ear me?" France asked, letting anxiety get the better hold of him as he shook England gently, but shaking him none the same.

"Mgh..wha? Stop it frog." England grumbled weakly as slits of eyes forced their way open, revealing dulled and glassy emeralds as he weakly pawed at France's arms.

"Oh Dieu merci, do not do zaht to me Angleterre!" Francis exclaimed, taken over by a tide of relief but which rapidly changed to concern as England asked,

"Why? What happened?" And quickly added, "And why am I on the floor?"

"You collapsed you silly fool! You are sick!" He replied, voice crippled with worry.

"Collapsed?" England asked wearily, struggling once again to keep his glazed over eyes open.

France, not bothering to ask for permission, quickly placed the back of his hand to England's forehead, and retracted just as fast once he felt the inferno radiating from it.

"Let us get you to bed. You need rest to recover, non?" He asked, gently picking England up, getting a 'mmph' in reply as he walked back to the bedroom and tucked England in with a thin sheet.

England was out before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Francis, after taking Arthur's temperature yet again and discovering it was at a startling 40 degrees Celsius, hurriedly went about placing a cool cloth on his forehead, then making his way downstairs.

Approaching the phone, he picked up the ear and head piece- _it's so convenient now that they come in one piece_- he thought to himself. Placing it to the side of his face, he held up the piece of paper with the doctor's phone number on and hesitated. The man was of no use when he arrived, only stating what he already knew and refusing to give him any pain killers, so what was the point in calling him?

Francis pondered this for a moment but then thought,

_There is no way I can handle Arthur in this state by myself, but even so..._

Chewing on his bottom lip lightly, he was just about to call the doctor an idea struck his mind, and he went about calling up those numbers immediately. They would definitely help.

Besides, it had been a while since they'd all gotten together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: Sorry this took so long! I started it and wasn't sure what to do, but I eventually managed to sort myself out. This one is also shorter, but that also means there'll be more chapters (yay!). Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**The Great Smog**

Thursday 7th December 1952

Arthur felt horrible. It felt as if every waking moment dragged on for an eternity that was too hot and then too cold for him to fight back against, and when sleeping, nightmares plagued him. All of him limbs felt heavy, and breathing had become more than just a pain that lingered at the back of his mind. His insides were on fire-at least it felt like that. He would scream if it didn't hurt so much. When awake, everything would be a haze as he tried to blink away tears welting in his eyes from the burning sensation, but to no avail. The last thing he clearly remembered was France picking him up and putting him back in bed after...well...expelling the contents of his stomach.

That was until _they_ came.

He could hear and feel them before seeing them. A cool hand pressed against his forehead, replacing the now lukewarm cloth and making him sigh in relief.

"How long has he been like this?" A boisterous voice asked. He knew that voice. One which usually soared around the room without a care in the world was now chained down with worry.

Alfred.

"Since Tuesday..." Came the worried response, followed by a light click which Arthur could only assume Francis was biting his nails. He always had them manicured to perfection, so if he was biting down on them to reduce stress, well...things couldn't be looking too great.

_I can't keep dong this_, he thought as his feverish mind picked up odd pieces of mutilated logic. _They have their own issues to deal with in their own homes...if I could just demonstrate I was well enough, then they may be spared some worry._

"Alfred, I'm-" _Alright_ he finished in his mind, but the croak soon turned into another one of those blasted coughing fits, making his chest jerk slightly upward as he tried to control them.

"Whoa, easy on there Artie." A voice comforted, as a hand slid behind his back and helped him to sit up, rubbing it all the while.

After the coughing fit had subsided, England looked around the room tearing up from the fit to find that another figure he didn't recognise was in the room. After taking the glass off of it, and nodding in thanks, he quickly downed the water.

Leaning back against the headrest and sighing he managed to open his eyes more, despite the constant burning behind them and wanted to slap himself silly for not realising who it was sooner.

"Matthew? You came too?" He asked, voice weighed with exhaustion.

The blurry figure replied quietly, but a normal volume level for Matthew, answering,

"Of course I did. After all, I couldn't leave you all to Al and papa."

He chuckled slightly, wincing as it made his lungs clench and burn and was slowly eased down back into his bed. Raising his eyebrow quizzically - it seemed to be natural to him- he was about to ask why he had to go to sleep already, they had only just arrived! The beginning of a word escaped his mouth but sounded nothing like the said word, only coming out as a disgruntled noise which was quickly shushed. Swiftly, the warm cloth was replaced by a cool one, the blanket being pulled up to his chin and he was ushered back into the land of sleep by his two sweet boys, making him smile slightly.

"G'night Artie. Sleep tight." Alfred stated, quickly followed by a reassuring Matthew,

"We'll be here when you wake up."

Nodding slightly, he let everything tumble down as his eyelids fluttered and was carried away from this horrible mess.

* * *

**Alfred & Matthews POV**

They had been called by Francis in the rather unholy hours of 3AM and were (well Alfred was), rather annoyed to say the least at being bothered so early. But, after hearing the reason he had called them, they both met up and took the fastest plane to Manchester (as London was so covered in the smog there was no way planes were flying), and then drove across dangerous country roads to London, noting every cow they saw choked to death on the fields.

They had expected bad, but this itself was surprising.

The first time they had walked into the room and seen their former father, Matthew had quickly rushed out again in fear of crying after seeing him in such a weak state. Alfred merely stood there shocked, no visible expression on his face, but his eyes showed conflict. After gathering their bearings, they had struck up a conversation with France as to how he got into such a dreadful situation.

"How did this happen?" Matthew asked, placing a comforting hand on his papa's shoulder, yet felt no comfort himself-only fear. He hadn't seen him so bad since the London blitz.

"Pollution." France mumbled, resting his chin on a fist, of which was propped up on one knee as he sat awkwardly in his chair, as if he was a statue.

"But we all have pollution...how did it get to be like this?" He asked again, changing the word order and subject slightly.

Sighing, Francis let his knee slide off the chair as he ran both hands over his face wearily.

"Perfect conditions. From what I 'ave 'eard, zhere was an 'anti-cyclone' over ze area, making it warm up, and in turn, reduce Angleterre to zhis state."

As Matthew continued to ask various questions and comfort his papa when he could, Alfred just stayed completely silent, watching his father's chest rise and fall, eyebrows knitted in agony as little beads of sweat scattered and rolled across his forehead. He made his way over to him, and after feeling the heat coming from his forehead, soaked the cloth in water, ringed it and placed it back on his forehead, earning a sigh from the man. Finally working up the courage to say something, Alfred asked,

"How long has he been like this?"

Francis paused from talking to his son and rested his hands on his knees, facing upwards to Alfred. With a better view of his face he realised just how bedraggled he was. Dark rings hung beneath his eyes and of which, were weary, lacking the normally exuberant glow that radiated from the peacock blue. His hair lay limp and coated in grease, the odd strand finding its way out of his once controlled do, and he looked like he hadn't slept a wink in days.

"Since Tuesday..." He replied depressively, turning to his hand and bit on his nails to try and alleviate the stress, of which Canada was silently freaking out at the thought of his father biting his own nails.

"Alfred, I'm-" A hoarse voice broke into a fit of coughs and all of their attention was thrown across the room to the ill Brit who was now, surprisingly, awake.

"Whoa, easy on there Artie." America stated as he slid his hand behind his back and helped him up into a sitting position. _He's light_ his thoughts whispered, but quickly returned his attention to the man in front of him, rubbing his back supportively. All the while, Matthew had dashed off to get a glass of water, and France had jumped at the chance to help, but now stood awkwardly as he watched them help, feeling useless.

Letting him sit up of his own accord after he stopped coughing they watched England as he looked around the room blearily and then took the glass of water off of Canada, downing it, after which, France took the glass off him which he didn't seem to notice in the slightest.

Hearing him sigh, America relaxed a little more, swimming in his father's relief. But he soon noticed him squinting, wondering if it had affected his sight too before he asked tiredly,

"Matthew? You came too?"

Matthew, seeming to brighten up at the mention of his name, replied happily,

"Of course I did. After all, I couldn't leave you all to Al and papa."

England seemed to chuckle a little, making all of them smile as America slowly eased him back into bed. He seemed to protest a little at the idea but was quickly shushed by America, as France re-dampened his cloth and placed it back on his head, and Canada pulled the blanket up.

"G'night Artie. Sleep tight." Alfred stated in his usual heroic self, pulling back as he noticed England begin to relax. At that, his brother added,

"We'll be here when you wake up."

Watching him nod and fall off to sleep, they were left in somewhat welcomed silence, accompanied by nothing but his ragged breathing.

Francis sighed again, gathering all of their attention as he wiped off something from Arthur's hand, and then stood.

"What's wrong papa?" Matthew asked concerned. It only took one ill or damaged parent to get them feeling disorientated, but two may be too much for them.

Facing Matthew again, Francis let out another one of those heavy sighs and replied exasperated,

"I...I am not certain mon fils...I just feel useless."

"Useless? However so papa?" His son replied, confused.

Francis sighed again-_which was really getting on Alfred's nerves_- and replied,

"Even if we offer him zhis, 'e will suffer as long as 'is people do. And all we can do is watch 'im suffer through it..."

Matthew looked dumbfounded facing his papa. He had _not_ expected an answer like that, especially from someone who taunted the resilient Brit all the time. Yet before he could comfort him with sweet empty words, another voice cut through the room.

"So what if his people are suffering? As long as we're there for him, and make him feel like he can make it through this-he can. So we have to stay strong for his sake." Alfred grinned, letting confidence surge through the room as he caught the two of them off guard, and added,

"That's what heroes do, right?"

Francis, who was so pre-occupied in wallowing in his own self destructive thoughts, walked up to Alfred with tears in his eyes and hugged him, mumbling a 'thank you' into his chest. Matthew had joined in on the family moment and they savoured the moment of peace and family bonding before Matthew stated,

"I think you could do with a nap papa."

To which Francis laughed, but nodded none the less, bidding them a good evening, even though it was afternoon, and went to retire in one of the many stuffy guest rooms.

Matthew and Alfred then manoeuvred their way to a chair each after being sure Francis was alright and relaxed. But before nodding off to sleep from the jet-lag, the twins looked at each other and nodded, confirming their thoughts.

This was going to take a while.


End file.
